With These Hands
by Fuyu no Akegata
Summary: It's Kakashi's birthday, and Iruka tries to convince him how beautiful his hands truly are. Yaoi IruKaka mild swearing, light angst. Formerly Hands:Happy Birthday, Kakashi. Went from a one-shot to a WIP multi-chapter fic
1. Happy Birthday, Kakashi

Happy Birthday, Kakashi

**Title**: Hands

**Rating**: R

**Genre**: Romance, mild angst

**Pairing**: Iruka/Kakashi

**Length**: 2000 ish words

**Summary**: Iruka convinces Kakashi how beautiful his hands are...

**Warnings**: mild angst, shounen ai, mild swearing, yaoi

**Author ****Notes**: First time doing an Iruka POV, came to me the other day looking at my own  
tired, worn, hands I promise only mild angst this one, no one dies either, yay :) Smut  
level wasn't as high as I expected first posting after hubby came home, but trust me, the  
two I'm editing and cleaning up now will more than make up for that... Thanks again  
Hatochan, for EVERYTHING, always, more than you know... and yet again for the beta...

**Disclaimer**: Naruto and it's lovely characters don't belong to me, they belong to Kishimoto,  
but Kakashi asked if he and 11 other jounin, chuunin, and a pervy old sannin could be traded  
over to me for his birthday, apparently it didn't work... damn there goes the birthday orgy...

The quiet snick of the window latch was loud in the darkness. It must have been a rough mission. He always came in through the window after those missions, as if the smaller portal kept his presence from being too intrusive, disturbing the peacefullness of the darkened room. The slight breeze and scent of damp leaves confirmed the open window. A shadow ghosted past on silent feet, skirting around the bed to reach the bathroom. I waited, listening to what would sound to anyone else to be mere shower sounds, but to me they spoke volumes concerning the condition of the man being drenched within. The raindrop pattern of water pounding against the glass door seemed to last forever.

A very rough mission.

A few more minutes of waiting and I knew the water must be ice cold. I debated going in to check on the other shinobi, but decided to give him a few more moments alone with his thoughts, unpleasant though they must have been. My wait wasn't overly long. The fall of water abruptly ceased and a burst of humid air followed the man into the bedroom. I heard the damp thud of a towel hitting the floor next to the hamper and smelled the clean herbal scent of my own soap. I watched pale skin and silvery hair make their moonlit way towards me before the other side of the futon dipped low. Perfectly defined muscles flexed and tensed, creating sharp shadows along the marble like contours of his body.

I heard the quietly whispered "Tadaima," and answered "Okaeri," just as quietly.

Just to make sure he knew it was more than a formality, I repeated, "Welcome home, Kakashi." Only silence answered. That was not entirely unexpected. It was difficult sometimes returning from a mission and then going back to a normal life. So every shinobi devised a routine, some nearly as elaborate as the tea ceremony, to help them decompress, return to normality in their own way. Kakashi would sneak in through the window, silently erasing all trace of the mission before coming to my bed. What happened after always depended on the mission. At times he would be gentle and considerate, sharing and giving until I wanted to cry with the very beauty of our lovemaking. The times when he was not so gentle or considerate were no less wonderful, though, in the way a wild, harsh thunderstorm showed its beauty, all nails and teeth and flexing muscle. There were also quiet times, when he said not a word, the only sound his lips on my neck, or the tiniest of sighs as he filled me with the proof of his desire. Even rarer were the nights after a perfect mission, where seemingly nothing went wrong, nights filled with joy and laughter, softly whispered words of love interspersed with teasing. And there were the nights of anniversaries. The nights every shinobi knew and understood. Nights of memory and regret, filled with phantoms and dreams. Nights filled with silence or tears, sake and remembrance. Nights spent alone or huddled quietly in the arms of a lover, cursing the darkness.

Tonight was an anniversary of sorts, for Kakashi anyway. The anniversary of his birth. I wondered if the long shower meant he had failed to come to terms with another year outliving his former team mates or if it was some new torment from the latest mission. The clock ticked down the minutes 'til midnight in the quiet room, the only sound our breathing and the relentless forward march of time. Another tick and I shattered the silence. "Happy Birthday, Kakashi."

"Hmmmmm," he answered. Well, it wasn't the most polished or refined answer I had ever received, but it was an acknowldgement.

"Are you almost ready to talk about it?" I had my own routine, like every shinobi's partner; wait in silence until he approached the bed and get him to talk it out as soon as possible without intruding too much on his pain. If he was answering, in however primitive a manner, he was almost ready to share this night's burden. Another grunt was the only reply. I sat up and leaned back against the wall, waiting for him to join me. Perhaps five minutes later, the other presence moved to sit beside me. "Was it bad this time?"

"Not as bad as some, but bad enough." Which meant it was probably pretty fucking horrible, but if he was willing to make the attempt to live with it, who was I to say otherwise. "I'm ok."

"What can you tell me?"

Kakashi never looked up, kept staring at his hands in his lap. "Just a standard, run-of-the-mill assassination mission. Nothing out of the ordinary." Nothing out of the ordinary for an elite jounin ninja. Very much out of the ordinary for anyone else. His voice was worn and rough. "I guess it's just been a long few weeks. I'm tired and things just never seem to stop. Been a long time since my last real downtime. I'm ok, though."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself, Kakashi. I'm not one of the mission-room shinobi you have to BS... Ok, I am, but not here, not now. Here and now I'm your lover, I'm here for you... What's wrong?"

Kakashi brought his hands up into sight. Although he was naked and still barely damp, he still wore his gloves, the metal protectors fogged from the shower. A ragged piece of bandage peeked from one leather covering.

"It's not serious, is it Kakashi?" A slight tone of anger clouded my voice, but not for Kakashi. I wondered if he would ever tell me what happened or how. So much had to remain unshared between us. Mission confidentiality and security demanded it, and although I understood, it didn't mean I always accepted willingly, especially not when they sent him back out night after night after night, with barely a break in between. Eventually odds like those won.

"No, not really. Just a few more scars to add to my collection. Nothing new."

"Kakashi..." This moroseness, this... this melancholy was something new. "Let me?" I gently brought the hands to my face and removed the gloves. He resisted once before giving in. Smart man. I'm more stubborn than you are tonight. The fraying bandage was grubby and stained. Most likely applied himself shortly after battle, and not yet replaced or properly attended. Most definitely not looked after by a medic. I kissed the palm of the unbandaged hand and he shuddered. I unwound the fabric from around the clenched fist, wincing in sympathy at the deep slash on the palm, the bruising and swelling, the cracked skin over the knuckles. Small bits of plaster still embedded in the broken skin. "Kakashi?"

"Punched a wall. It's fine, nothing's broken." The hands were pulled back, twisted together in his lap.

"Kakashi, it isn't fine. You're not fine. Why didn't you get this taken care of properly?"

A deep sigh weighed down the already heavy atmosphere. "I hate my hands." Nothing more was offered for several long moments. The loose papers on the dresser rustled in the breeze, the only sound to break the stillness surrounding us. When he spoke again, eyes locked onto his wringing hands, the pain and utter weariness in his voice caused my own throat to grow tight. "They're ugly. Hangnails,blisters, calluses... I've chewed the nails to the quick; they're rough and sharp and look horrible. The scars... "

"Kakashi, those scars were earned honorably, defending our village and our comrades. If your nails and fingers are chewed and bitten raw, it's from worry, worrying about the people you protect every time you pull on your hitai-ate, every time you accept a scroll and whatever mission it contains." I tried to convince, to comfort.

He wouldn't accept it. " They kill. You've never seen me squeeze the life from a toddler because some rich merchant wanted to hurt a rival. You've never seen me cause hurt and pain and death night after night after night. " Kakashi's hands were gripping each other so tightly, the fingers twitching sporadically. " Too many scars, everywhere. I'm all bruised and bloody. And kami help me I like to think I'm not vain, but all the fine lines like spiderwebs... I'm getting old Iruka. I'm already old for a shinobi, how many of us live past 25? I'm already several years past that, nearly a decade past the average age of shinobi with my rank, my experience. How much longer can I do this and remain effective. And what happens to all of us when I can't do this any longer?" A metal guard pressed into the opposite palm, threatening to draw blood.

" You kill and maim fulfilling your mission duties, never in moments of wanton destruction. I'm a shinobi, too, Kakashi. I'm not ignorant of what that entails. I've performed the same tasks. " I laid a tentative hand on his thigh, fingers curling gently over the swell of muscle. I rub my own facial scar with the other hand, trailing to the crow's feet beginning to crease the skin around my eyes. " Yes, you're getting older every day, we all are, but that's just more time we've had to share with each other. And this village will still be protected when you and I are both long gone. Your students, my students, they will pick up where we leave off; that's what we've trained to do, to protect everything we hold dear when we're gone. " He remained silent, motionless, and I could see the sharingan watering in the dim light. " And even if you had to give up the shinobi life tomorrow, I wouldn't love you any less. "

" Iruka, I just-"

"Kakashi..." I carefully took hold of his clenched fists, pulling them into my own lap, working my fingers between the palms to pry them apart. " Did you know that your hands are one of the things I love the most about you?" After separating his hands I began to stroke them, tracing the imperfections, large and small. I spoke quietly, soothingly. " So strong and capable, but tender and loving. They can cradle a baby bird and return it to its mother's nest so quickly she never rejects it. Your hands pat Naruto on the head after a job well-done, giving him the acknowledgment he craves, wiped away Sakura's tears when you returned and told her they failed to bring Sasuke back. Your hands form the signs for jutsus most of us will never learn in order to protect this village and everyone in it. They show me _so_ much love every time we are together. Your hands are two of the most beautiful things I've ever seen "

He sighed again, softer, weaker. The pale fingers began to relax under my touches.

" Your hands are two of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, Kakashi, because of all you've done with them... and because they're a part of you."

" B-Beloved, I ..." The strained voice hitched around the emotional endearment, his thought unfinished.

I gently kissed each hand and then leaned close to brush another across his forehead. "Kashi, love, I know how much you love me... let me show you how much I love you." My own strong capable hands eased him back onto the futon.

There was nothing hard or fast or rough that night, no mere seeking of release. Instead it was slow and tender, showing him all the love I had for him, the love he so richly deserved. Some would say my very act of making love to him was taking, but I knew the very care and love and desire I showed him gave much more than it ever took. I would happily give and give and give to the man underneath me till there was nothing left of myself. And after I gave him a much needed release, tears falling like a soft spring shower from both our eyes at the very beauty of it, I kissed the fluttering eyelids and smoothed the delicate pulse jumping in his throat. "Happy Birthday, Kashi love, and let this be the first of many gifts on this day." I pulled him close and we fell asleep wrapped in each other's arms.


	2. Phantoms and Dreams

yaoi, darn

**Rating**: T+ not even any smut/yaoi, darn...  
**Genre**: Romance, angst, fluffy stuff  
**Pairing**/**Characters**: Iruka/Kakashi  
**Length**: 1800 ish words  
**Summary**: Iruka patching up Kakashi's hands, after a rough night and an annoying mission  
**Author Notes**: Still not altogether used to doing Iruka POV. Came to me very unexpectedly yesterday. My Kakashi muse snuck up on me, but not quite how I expected. He was supposed to be drugged senseless so I could finish the last bit of Shoulder, chapter 10, but instead he was morose and brooding, sulking, even. Add in the comment from Hatochan that it was snowing (after the mostly lovely, warm, spring weather of our early spring break with her last week), and this story happened. Some angst this time, but no one new dies, although mentions of an old death occur… Smut level was absolutely nil. Pfffft. Why couldn't the Smut Fairy have come visiting, instead of the Angst Fairy? And yes, this Kakashi **is** a bit OOC for how I normally write him, much more bitter and brooding… but this is set in the midst of the as-yet unposted/incomplete Post Journey stories Stand or Fall/Strong Enough that Hato and I are working on. All will make sense then. It's also a loose continuation of an earlier story written for Kakashi's birthday (Hands: Happy Birthday, Kakashi) It got enough favorable comments and reviews on that I couldn't stop thinking about it, so now it's yet another multi-chapter WIP… sheepish grin… Thanks again Hato, always... for basil, late spring snow, and cougars. Smile.  
**Disclaimer**: Naruto and it's lovely characters don't belong to me, they belong to Kishimoto, but Kakashi asked if he and 11 other jounin, tokubetsu jounin, chuunin, and a pervy old sannin could be traded over to me for his birthday; apparently it didn't work... damn there goes the birthday orgy...

"It's snowing…"

"Is it?" Kakashi's voice held a distant, distracted note, tonight. "I have to go." The echoes of his voice trailed away as quickly as the puffs of smoke as he disappeared.

"Kakashi?" Only the wind moaning from outside answered my query.

I waited quietly, patiently throughout the dark night, finally dozing an hour or two before dawn.

The soft snick of the window latch woke me, darkness amplifying the small sound. A short, harsh blast of wind and the sharp scent of snow accompanied a silent shadow moving towards the bathroom.

I waited, listening to the slow, clumsy sounds coming from the bathroom. The dull clatter of armor being unceremoniously tossed aside, and the heavy, damp thuds of wet clothing peeled from skin and being dropped to the unforgiving tile didn't inspire their normal relief tonight. He might have returned uninjured in body, but I wasn't so sure about the state of his heart, his spirit, tonight.

We had a routine, he and I, for nights like this. He came through the window and erased all traces of the cold, silent killer before coming to my bed. Of course, all those other nights, they came looking for him with missions; he hadn't sought them out… I remained quiet, never pushing, until he was ready to talk, to share, to regain his sense of humanity.

After almost too long, I heard the shower spray against the glass. Even the very sound of the water seemed somehow… off, tonight. I quietly opened the door with a fresh stack of towels and a clean pair of loose pants. I hadn't expected anything other than the warm, suffocating humidity of the fogged bathroom and piles of discarded laundry dotting the slick tile.

I didn't expect the frigid, night wind shrieking through the open window, or Kakashi still huddled on the floor beside the cold shower, raw red hands clutched in his lap, legs tucked beneath him.

"Kakashi, love?" I dropped the towels and fell to my feet beside him, dismayed at the paleness of his skin, his listless demeanor. This was no lazy disposition to fool the world into underestimating him or hiding his true feelings from view. Only the fierce blush of his hands and the triangle around his eye and the slow, hitching breaths distinguished him from a cold, uncaring, marble statue.

"I had to promise to come straight back to you, after. You're to open the scroll to send a message to Tsunade-sama letting her know the mission was a success." Kakashi gestured to a pocket of his sodden vest, previously discarded on the floor. "She didn't want to let me go. Ibiki flat-out refused…" His voice was rough from the cold. I was close enough now to see the tangles and clumps of ice in his hair, to smell the faint scent of blood that must be coming from those raw, cold hands.

"Kakashi… " my voice trailed away in confusion, and I got up to close the window, turn off the shower, I wrapped the large, soft towels around the pale body, fingers brushing against his taut stomach and again I was reminded of hard, unfeeling stone.

'I'm fine, Iruka, just cold. I'll be fine." The words rasped in his throat, and I wondered if it was as abused as his hands.

My own voice cracked. "You're not fine, Kakashi. You haven't been for awhile now." It was the first time I had come out and said what I had been thinking for two months, now, and I blinked, not even realizing I had spoken out loud until I saw the dull, flat look in his eyes. The long weeks without any challenging, meaningful missions were taking their toll on him.

"I'm sorry, Kakashi…" What I said was true, but now was not the time or place for the discussion, not when Kakashi was so affected by the cold and whatever memories he was trying to repress. I didn't mean to hurt him, even if I did mean the words.

I watched his head droop more, whether in acceptance or fatigue, I didn't know or even care anymore. "Kakashi, let me see." As always, he reacted immediately to that tone of mingled command and concern, and not for the first time, I wondered if the Yondaime had used a similar one with him.

The hands were curled and trembling slightly, and I saw it was more a mottled color, white and purple mixing with the angry red. Small pinpricks of red bloomed across the knuckles, and I wondered what he had been doing that he had taken off his gloves. "Don't try to move them yet, but do you have any feeling in your fingertips?"

"A little, but the fingers feel thick and swollen, clumsy." The words seemed dragged almost resentfully from Kakashi. "Now is when you tell me what an idiot I am for not taking proper care of myself, for injuring myself, for depleting my chakra so needlessly."

I automatically checked his chakra levels at the words, dismayed to find them so low and even more upset that I hadn't noticed right away. "I don't suppose I need to tell you when you did such a good job saying it, yourself."

"And it's all completely right. It **was** needless, even though it was all for _the mission_…" Iruka had never heard the words delivered with such sneering distaste and revulsion from Kakashi.

"A fat, rich merchant and his wife were 'sorely inconvenienced' by the late snow… Their daughter's seventeenth birthday party is tomorrow. Tsunade had already turned down the mission request, saying we 'couldn't afford the profligate waste of our shinobi resources.' Creating a small island of springtime in that snowstorm for a spoiled, ungrateful brat certainly qualifies as one of the most petty and wasteful uses of my skills ever, I'm sure, but the Hokage and Council can't sneer or scoff at the substantial addition of gold to Konoha's coffers."

"Island of springtime?" Surely I misunderstood, the sheer magnitude of the undertaking and the massive outpouring of raw power required astounded me.

"Oh yes. Their lovely Yumi-hime wants an outdoor picnic. And what Jou-chan wants, Jou-chan gets. Farmers' early crops and fruit trees are being damaged and we don't have the manpower to help without severely depleting our own strength, but a merchant has the money to waste to pay me to warm a garden, coax the flowers into bloom, and melt the koi-pond. There's a little protected bubble of garden on his estate that's a full two months later in season, and I'm keeping it that way until the party's over. Tsunade turned him down, but then when I showed up demanding a mission so late… She hated giving in to such an irresponsible request, but what else could she do?"

"Kakashi… tell me one thing. Why did Tsunade-sama say yes when Ibiki said no?" He was silent so long I thought he was refusing to answer.

"Sometimes Tsunade remembers things Ibiki has to look in a file for." After a moment's silence, he continued. "They told me it was snowing the day she died. She was seventeen." Kakashi's voice was flat and emotionless, as if reciting events that had happened to a stranger. "The last member of my team died in a village that isn't even there anymore. I was away on a mission and found out two weeks later." A pause. " They destroyed the body." The uncovered sharingan twitched open and spun wildly before closing once more. "I can't remember the following three months of my life." The stormy gray eye closed as well, and he fell silent.

Even before he mentioned his team, I knew. There were so few women in his life. He had loved her, I knew. Maybe not how she had wished, or how he thought she had deserved, but I knew he had cared for the young healer, in his own rough, fumbling way. Losing the last member of his team, and his last link with his beloved sensei, finding out after the fact, knowing he had existed, maybe even laughed or smiled while Rin lay dead in the snow of a tiny, dying village, these were things Kakashi clung to, like a small child refusing to let go of a love-worn plushie long after the eyes had fallen off or the last stuffing had been hugged from its frayed and misshapen body.

Knowing Kakashi, he probably still clung to the shreds of some irrational guilt or a promise unfulfilled only in his eyes. He always expected more from himself than anyone else ever would, and was much harder on himself when he fell short of his own unattainable standards or goals.

"She helped teach a series of classes, while I was still at the academy. Field-expedient medicine. I'm sure she passed on to us several methods she came up with and refined on you. I remember there was some horseplay during a break, and a few of the boys wrestling on the ground, They rolled around and squashed a butterfly… She had such fine chakra control that she was able to heal it. I can still see her, the butterfly landed on her forehead and almost seemed to give her a kiss before it flew away." I paused a moment, savoring the memory, sharing it with my love, wanting him to remember the good as well as the bad. "She also taught us this."

Kakashi gasped as he felt the hint of a tingle flow through his numbed fingers and into the reddened hands. The gentle, healing heat began as a trickle, but soon became an unending tide, and soon he was drowning in warmth and light and memory and the ghost of a soft, feminine laugh. My hands soothed across his pale skin, trailing an almost unseen green light almost unbearable to Kakashi in its combined tenderness and intensity. Kakashi later swore Rin was there with us, her small hands pouring out healing to his cold, tortured soul as much as I did for his cold, shivering body.

I carried the limp, unresisting body, now tinged with the barest flush of pink, to the bed, and curled behind him, making a warm, safe haven beneath the blankets. He settled softly into the futon, instinctively burrowing closer to me, and I cradled him against me, my hands laced with his upon his chest, kissing the silvered temple gently, whispering into his hair. I dreamed of making love to him in the sweet-scented grass of the merchant's garden, dangling our toes in the koi-pond, and feeding each other tidbits of sticky-sweet summer fruit, praying even some small portion of my inner calm could remain with him come morning. If not, then maybe he could call on this quiet, happy memory, to help keep the phantoms at bay.


End file.
